Poetry: Washing Up
Words: Amy Ekins
My stomach is a washing up bowl –
empty, but a bit damp about the edges
to indicate that it is usable, that it is
waiting, whisking stray liquid into frothy frustration.
It houses the occasional cup, or bowl, but those
are just as empty, just as devoid
I hear it sometimes, banging against the dish drainer, demanding
that I fill it with something meaningful –
a Tommee Tippee, or a casserole dish stuck
all over the sides with gravy from a family meal.
I try to quiet it with pet bowls, and friend’s tumblers,
and the half-used dish from my partner and I’s pasta,
but it’s no use.
I fear that cracks are forming in the plastic,
and that when the day comes that I can afford to tip
a four-person dinner set into the space,
the bowl will have rotted, unable to contain